“If you say so,” said the boy, looking at me uncertainly. “Gee, your eyes do look like lion eyes.”
“Do all of the countries on the map look like shapes of things?” I asked curiously.
“Here is Italy. What do you see?”
“I see an Englishwoman’s boot! I wish I went to school so I could learn things like you.”
“Oh, it is not that great. You have to memorize the multiplication table, and of course, read English.”
“You are so lucky,” I said, plopping myself on the dusty floor. I was supposed to go to the well to fetch water, but the bucket sat next to me, empty as could be.
“I would rather be play kickball all day long.”
“Me too.”
“So, play kickball.”
“I have to learn housekeeping duties, like sewing. I can already make a pillow case and a book bag. Amma says every woman should know one worthy trade.”
“Look, my book bag is ripped. My auntie says she will buy me one, but she is old and forgets things.”
“I can fix it.”
“Is it not hard for lions to hold items in their paws and sew?”
“I am only a quarter, remember?”
“My name is Salim. What can I do for you in exchange for fixing my bag?”
“My name is Sukaina. You can teach me the names of countries in your book.”
Salim took two samosas out from his bag, and handed me one. “Are you hungry? One of these was for my older brother, but he is too busy picking fights to remember to eat. My auntie might be forgetful, but she makes good samosas. Fit for a Lion Queen, you might say.”
I took a bite. “Delicious.” Amma’s samosas were always made with minced meat and onions or plain peas. But these had potatoes and turmeric inside.
“Do you want to join us in a game of kickball?”
“You think they would let a girl like me play?” I watched as the boys in the fifth standard pointed and laughed in our direction. My tattered veil slipped from my shoulders.
“They do not know who you are yet. Once I tell them you are a Lion Queen, they will not argue with me. You can count on me. What do you think?”
I tilted my head towards the sun and smiled. “You might change your mind once you see how fast I run.” And before he could reply, I pumped my legs and headed toward the street carts, leaving him standing in a cloud of dust.
***
MY AMMA SAID, “SUKAINA, dear daughter, think wisely before marrying this man. You should marry a man who is both wealthy and loves you more than you love him. I do not believe this man is good for you.”
Had my mother forgotten my husband-to-be from youth? How he would spend half the day trying to get me to play kickball and the other half teaching me things he had learned at school? I would walk behind my older sisters with fresh rations: plantains, beef, and maize flour, used to make Ugandan dishes called ugali and matoke, wishing I had my very own kickball. When I reminded Amma of these details, she only smirked.
“Of course I remember, dear one. Salim was on the path of distracting you from your womanly duties from the first moment he laid eyes on you.”
Yet Amma still found a joy in showing me the wedding clothes she would pass on to me, stowed away in the musty cabinet. Her carefully preserved saris were from a different era, a time when saris told stories — princes and princesses with kingdoms of elephants and servants holding parasols. Amma hand-stitched new sari blouses to match the ever-changing fashion. Amma showed me how to embroider Gujarati mirror work onto dupatta and blouses, the tiny glass mirrors shining out from the fabrics like a thousand glassy-eyed princesses. From her I learned the art of zardozi: weaving in gold and silver string to transform the saris into ornate and heavy masterpieces.
Naturally, I wanted to make my own bridal sari, for everyone knew a girl was washed in seven seas of luck if she made her own bridal gown. We bought lace imported from Europe, spending the last hours of the day stitching lace flowers onto the fabric. Amma dished out marital advice as we worked: the man was the head of the household and the woman was the neck; fresh roti had to be made from scratch daily; the man should eat first and get the best cuts of meat. While she spewed lessons, I sewed, learning how to hide buttons into the front centre of blouses.
When Amma finally saw me in my bridal sari, my first thought was she was overwhelmed because I looked so beautiful. The gown billowed out around my feet in so many layers you could not even see the tips of my toes. The gold lace made my eyes shine like two golden baubles taken straight from the raj’s garden courtyard. Amma had worn a traditional red sari on the day she had gotten married, but nowadays a bride could wear any colour, except black, of course.
“I warned you enough about marrying a man that cares more about the happenings of the world than his own wife,” she said, adjusting the sari hem.
“But what happens in the world does affect us … ”
“You are so young and naïve. I hope that talking about politics will keep your belly full.” Amma pressed candied fennel seeds into my mouth.
She worried because my husband-to-be spoke openly against the British colonizers. He talked about socialism, saying people ought to participate and share in the economy equally. Baba said a person’s skill level should determine their pay. After all, doctors should not get paid the same as toilet cleaners. By the time I got married, I shared my husband’s view, and felt almost as knowledgeable as him: Emma Goldman was preaching for a world free from the exploitation of capitalism, advocating the creation of unions to protect workers. Goldman spoke on behalf of women’s rights and the freedom of speech. Apparently places existed where a woman could speak her mind — far-off places like America and Europe.
If Baba had heard Goldman, he would have cried in outrage at the Godlessness of agitators who spoke of such things as unions and livable wages. He claimed his paper mill would crumble if workers were to demand an eight-hour work day. Baba considered himself an enlightened philosopher. In his paper mill he had painted quotes to inspire his workers, quotes such as: “Contentment is natural wealth; luxury is artificial poverty.” Baba said life needed leaders and life needed followers, and we Indians, who derived from the Caucasus Mountains, were the leaders — just look at what we did in Africa, look how like cream we had risen to the top.
On the day of the proposal, I wore a peach-coloured sari, sheer as the tissue paper Baba dyed at his mill. My husband wore his Chaplin hat, which led Amma to comment that from her experience, the British removed their hats indoors. Amma had prepared chai and spicy chila pancakes with green chutney, but I was the one who brought out the food. The African sun shone into our modest living room, making the glass on our coffee table sparkle. If the names Marx, Lenin, or Bhagat Singh had been brought up, surely the wedding would have been called off. But Baba was not paying attention; he was happy to marry off one of his daughters, even if she was not the eldest. When Baba took my suitor’s hands in both of his two swollen, veined hands, I knew he had accepted my husband-to-be.
My love story, like Amma’s furniture in her own circle, was the envy of my friends. Fatima was married off to a man twenty years her senior, a misfortune blamed on her crooked nose and pockmarked face. Zeenat, who had broad feet and an unruly height, married a widower with three children. By these standards I was as lucky as Shahrazad, who had been smart enough to not only prevent herself from being beheaded, but managed to get the king to fall in love with her. My husband was a respectable school teacher, and even before our wedding, he tucked flowers into the bars gating my window from thieves and monkeys.
On the eve of my wedding, neighbours from the compound admired my mehndi, taking sweet orange lumps of laddoo served by the silent African servers. I was not interested in Amma’s wedding jewellery set and gold star nose-pin, which she handed down to me even though, rightfully, it belonged to my eldest sister. What I long
ed for were words of love from Amma and Baba. The necklace weighed down on my neck alongside my flower garland, and I kept my eyes downcast as every bride should. My sisters arranged pillows behind my back, spreading out my embroidered sari so I looked like a decadent Japanese fan. They fed me rich kheer dusted with fine saffron.
After our marriage, my husband happily ate my roti, raw in parts and burnt in others. We went to Gujarati plays and held hands although no other couples did. I started pinning fresh flowers in my finger waved hair. The more the people in our community gawked at us, the more we indulged our audience. When we went into town I talked as loudly about politics as he did and walked right alongside him, while all the other wives followed behind their men.
I learned to challenge Baba’s views during the passionate discussions my husband and I hosted. One night, I sat by the chulha in our tiny kitchen, stirring a sufaryo of cardamom chai. I wanted to make the special chai Amma made, but it was cumbersome to slice almonds and toast them with sugar and cocoa over the stove. Also I did not have any omuboro in the house, so could not make the sweet syrup she used to flavour her chai.
Our one-level house was built on the backs of other homes in the Indian slum, and along with the overzealous men debating I could hear the sound of the neighbour’s baby crying and the sloshing of dirty water being dumped out back doors. Muddy rivers flowed through the alleys, picking up plantain peels and garbage. A gang of dogs would drink from the rivulets at night.
“Gandhi,” my husband said, his mouth crammed full of spicy dhokla cake, “advocates for civil disobedience, but he also discourages the destruction of public property, the use of ill-mannered language, and the harbouring of secrets. What rubbish! Gandhi’s methods are not aggressive enough to help one pack of stray dogs start a riot against another.”
The men laughed appreciatively from the floor. They smoked beedi, brown twigs they waved in the air when they spoke. Lanterns, ashtrays, and appetizers surrounded them, picnic-style. We could not afford a coffee table or a couch, comforts I took for granted in my maternal home. Such factors added to my mother’s reasoning that my husband was not a good match for me. As if hearing my thoughts aloud, my husband slammed his hand against the wall. The kandili lanterns shook, throwing up mangled shadows against the wall. I wondered if kandili was an Indian or Swahili word. I used Swahili for bartering in the marketplace, for the Africans had no interest in learning Gujarati — I was thankful for this when I thought of the way Baba talked about African servants.
“Surely, Gandhi encouraging the poor to be in charge of their own production is impressive,” my husband shouted. “But such a blatant display of decentralizing power makes it impossible to overthrow the British government!”
Hafiz Sahib spoke next. “Yet, Salim, dear man, there is no doubt you look more like a dapper British gentleman than a militant Trotskyite. The distribution of British education, the building of roads, the organization of the bureaucracy and administrative offices in India — are these not all products of the colonization you claim you hate?”
My husband wore a suit while the rest of the men were dressed in cotton salwar kameez, paired with Western-style tweed blazers or tailored vests. Although the men challenged religion in the privacy of our home, they wore a Muslim topi on their heads when they left. All still attended the local mosque. My husband wore his suit, grey and worn, like a uniform at all gatherings, along with his Lock & Co. trilby hat. He had purchased the hat from a Bengali seaman selling wares from a tatami mat, including a painting of a seductive flapper girl holding a long cigarette holder and magic powder said to flavour and colour drinking water.
“The economic and cultural rape by the colonist is the undeniable downside to being occupied,” my husband replied smartly. “Brothers, I am not questioning the validity of the revolt, rather the style in which it is carried out. Trotsky! Now there is a true radical. Overtaking governments takes guts and guns. Not sit-outs and self-imposed food strikes. Now Sukaina may argue with you, but women, what do they know about the workings of the real world?” Hoarse laughter hung in the air along with the plumes of smoke rising from the cigarettes.
I felt my face redden. At the discussions, women were reduced to the same silly, shallow mannerisms they exhibited in silent films: the rapid batting of eyelashes, the incessant swooning. I thought of the few pictures of Emma Goldman I had seen, wearing dresses that showed her ankles while I was shackled in saris. Goldman was counted as a comrade amongst men, while I was trapped in another room making chai and snacks. Without thinking, I rushed through the drab purdah separating the rooms, neglecting to cover my head with my chero. A trail of chai dripped from my cooking spoon onto the terracotta floor.
My husband looked up, puzzled. “Is the chai ready?” Above him hung a seven-foot leopard skin rug, skinned from nose to tail. Abroad these rugs were rumoured to cost weeks of an average worker’s wages, but here, they were dirt cheap.
“I do not agree with you … ” My voice wavered.
“What?”
“Gandhi promotes non-violence, but he does not forbid bearing arms against an attacker. Has Trotsky not manipulated votes to favour him? Has he not killed numerous innocent Russians? Has he not appointed the very members of royalty, who he once famously condemned, into office?”
“Vah, vah, you have drawn on Gandhi’s piece ‘The Doctrine of the Sword’ nicely, dear housewife, but this discussion is very complicated,” said my husband.
“Dearest Sukaina, these are the necessary evils needed for revolutions to succeed,” Mohammed Ali Sahib said soothingly, ignoring my husband. “Befriending the enemy is the best way to keep an eye on him. Did you know Gandhi believes in order for India to be salvaged it has to ‘unlearn’ everything it has been taught for the last fifty years? In 1909, Gandhi announced if India wants to free itself from Britain’s clutches, all of India’s ‘railways, telegraphs, hospitals, lawyers, doctors, and such like have to go.’ Without such advancements to our civilization, we would be as advanced as the monkeys in our local jungle!”
Hafiz Sahib silenced Mohammed Ali Sahib, looking at me with fresh eyes. “You have made some good points, Sister. You should join us instead of hiding away in the kitchen. Lately, your husband, Salim, cares more of British fashion than communism!”
The smell of scalded milk filled the room. “If I join you,” I said shakily, “you will have to get used to burnt tea. But I must challenge Mohammed Ali Sahib on his comment about ‘necessary evils.’” Trembling, I pulled a hand-rolled cigarette from the tin. I imagined myself as daring and free as the French flapper girl in the painting, sold by the Bengali seaman.
“Now who has a light?” I said.
From this point on, I gathered with the men late into the night to discuss world affairs. Word spread that I was hobnobbing with male company. Amma said I should keep out of men’s conversation; it was not becoming of a lady to become involved in politics.
“Your husband is turning you into a card,” she said dryly. “He pulls you out at parties to do tricks. All the other ladies are laughing at you, beta. Learn to keep quiet.”
Amma thought of my husband as a man without family or proper morals. Orphaned in youth, he was raised by an aunt who had since moved to Mombasa. As per custom, Amma and Baba should have chosen my mate, but because many suitors asked for my hand, I had the pleasure of choosing rather than settling. Amma said this was because I had inherited her inverted pear-shaped face, fair skin, and liquid amber eyes. While Amma’s hair was a tangled mess of curls, mine hung down my back like straight arrows.
Then, one day no different from the one before it, food fizzed uncontrollably out from my throat. When I looked at the vomit on the floor, I was surprised at how much it looked like baking soda mixed with water, an old remedy that Amma used to make for upset stomachs. I realized then that I was pregnant. Amma paid a rare visit to my home when she heard the news, sitting with her legs folded
on the edge of our living room mat, looking as though she was ready to fly out the door. Amma said if things seem too good to be true, they generally were, and I should proceed with caution.
Paying heed, I followed the old wives’ tales I was told about pregnancy, such as watching how many chilies I ate with dinner. Amma was full of clichés she had bestowed upon me throughout childhood. “Darling, all that glitters is not gold” — this saying worried me most of all. I had yet to recognize something glittering enchantingly as anything other than gold. I felt as I did when I was a young girl and almost fell into a well. The yellow sun sparkling from the water looked just like a pot of golden treasures. My first thought was how happy Amma would be if I plucked them out for her — she would quit complaining about how she missed her wealthy upbringing. How Amma had screamed the day she caught me leaning into the well, dragging me all the way home by my ears.
Preparing myself for the ill dread of Amma’s omens coming true, I began picking fights with my husband. Political discussions, I quickly learned, were good for two things: using up our meagre rations and going nowhere. There was no revolt happening in Africa. There was no uprising amongst factory workers. The British hated us, and the Africans hated us more. What were we trying to change anyways? Fatigued by pregnancy, I began to go to sleep earlier. This was a mistake, for when I awoke I had to scrub the sufaryo with the rings of chai left behind, empty out rhinoceros-shaped tin ashtrays into the gullies, and burn incense to rid the house of the tobacco smell.
During the discussions I did attend, at some point it was always: “Sister, may I have more coconut chutney?” to which I would have to grind cilantro, lime, salt, garlic, green chili, and shredded coconut with my mortar and pestle. Long gone was the image of myself as a carefree flapper girl, smoking a cigarette alongside the men.
We began arguing every night, my husband and I. We argued whether or not to send our daughters to school, and for how long they should attend if we did. We argued whether we Gujarati people could boast about belonging to a fine culture if we did not send our daughters to school. We argued whether we should leave Kampala to the Africans, and move to our ancestral home in India. We argued about why other Gujarati people lived in bungalows while we struggled to make ends meet. We argued about whether we would even want to live in a bungalow, among the elites. As my husband began working later, I had only the grasshoppers to complain to. They scratched out their melodies while the dinner I had made my husband grew cold.
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